


Judas

by thelongcon (rainer76)



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU, Enemies to Lovers, Gore, M/M, Slow Build, Violence, WIP, bikies, but smut too, sorry - there's a plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-05 10:40:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/thelongcon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I ain’t gonna beg, Rick hears Merle yell, and wonders if Daryl would – beg for his brother, that is, if he’d make a stand, speak up for him when not even Merle cared about his own fate - if he’d go further, lie, cheat and steal, if he’d fight.  Rick watches that cigarette burn in the distance, bright as a firefly.</p><p>“What do you know about the kid?” he asks, thoughtfully.</p><p> </p><p>Or that weird au where Joe's the leader of a bikie gang, Rick's the cop hellbent on catching him, and Daryl's the question mark between.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously playing fast and loose with the characters age and disregarding the actors completely, who are significantly older – but in terms of the story: the first Gulf War ran from 1990-91, assuming Merle Dixon was 18 when he shipped out in 1990, it puts his birth year as roughly 1972. Daryl’s eleven years younger in the story, puts his birth year as 1983
> 
> At present in 2014 - Daryl's 31, and Merle's 42

[Inspired by this:](http://thelongcon23.tumblr.com/post/89043324736/starbranded-from-twitter#notes)

 

 

Artwork is not mine - but I tend to work of visual aids that are bright and shiny - with that in mind, you might want to check out Lady GaGa's music vid to Judas as well - which played a large part in inspiring this story.  If you do manage to read this from start to end, without smashing on the 'back' key in boredom, then a friendly kudos is appreciated, or if  you have a little extra time up your sleeve, a comment is as good as gold.  Hope you enjoy :)

 

***

 

Merle Dixon’s rap sheet reads like a Russian novel, tragic, violent, and too damn extensive. 

If Rick walloped Merle over the back of the head with it – and he’s feeling _very_ inclined to do so - then the weight of it would kill the man dead.  Beating a felon with their own police file is frowned upon of course; same as stuffing someone inside a metal locker and shoving them down the staircase is frowned upon.  In the past, the Sheriff’s Department has been uniquely imaginative in its interrogation techniques, but Rick likes to think they’ve turned a corner since.

He leans into the chair, his posture a casual slump. Bum perched on the edge of the seat, one leg stretched out until it’s almost tapping Merle’s boot.

Rick takes a sip of tepid coffee - so weak in caffeine it wakes him up by virtue of trying to swallow it – and quirks an eyebrow. Merle rattles his handcuffs obnoxiously, the chain hooked through the D-link on the table, clinking metal against metal.

“Has my brother swung by yet?”

“Really?  You think you have a chance of posting bail?”

Rick’s bottom lip is split open, he can taste blood intermingling alongside the weak coffee, the pale milk, and his ribs are bruised sepia like a silent film, a starburst pattern where Merle shot him square in the chest with a hunting rifle, close enough that it knocked Rick off his feet and spun him about like a bottle top.  That first breath hurt almost as much as being shot did, lungs heaving as Shane screamed at Merle.  In the confusion and melee it’s a wonder Merle Dixon survived the encounter at all, that he wasn’t shot dead under a hail of return fire, suicide by cop. 

Except it wasn’t suicide – at least Rick’s fairly certain it wasn’t  – just the blind stupidity of someone on crystal meth. 

The only reason Rick isn’t conversing with his maker is because of the vest, a shoddy one-size-fits-all - because the Sheriff’s department hadn’t updated their equipment in years, hamming about with walkie-talkies straight from the seventies and vests too long in the frame (over the hip), so if you attempted to sit, the bottom of the vest hit the seat and the entire thing (stiff Kevlar sheets and all) rode _upward_ \- turtle-vests, Shane called them, when Rick had blinked at him over the rim, feeling ridiculous, and it was a fairly apt description. For the moment, though, Rick’s one hundred per cent in _love_ with his turtle vest.  He’d marry the outdated thing, promise fidelity for all his remaining years - now he’s alive to see them. 

“A cop-shooter?” Rick emphasises.  “Merle, tell me, are you still tripping high? It sounds like it, with all this talk of bail, because those two events aren’t natural bedfellows.”  The waning sunlight slants through the high window, it catches the dust motes and turns them golden, the colour of peaches and autumnal hues. 

Merle shrugs. “A kind soul might cough up the dough, officer. You can’t underestimate the generosity of folks around these parts.”

“You _shot_ a cop.  You don’t walk out the doors whistling Dixie after that.”

“Huh - really?   What can I say, man, ex-military, PTSD, flashback or some other shit I guess.  Could have sworn it was a swine in my sights – an all brown one – little piggy the colour of tan.” Merle smiles.  His teeth are covered over by his lips, his mouth a fish-hook. “So you go ahead and tell me now, is my brother here?”

Juvenile records are sealed but Rick knows the history all the same. 

Merle Dixon started off with petty theft before he turned ten years old, graduated to B&E by thirteen - his victim an elderly grandfather who celebrated his seventy-first birthday the week before - Merle broke in through the basement window.  He then ran headlong into aggravated assault, scant months later, dusting it up with three kids in his own age bracket and hospitalising one, shattering his patella.  Merle served two years in a correctional facility and came out with worse habits than when he went in.   By the time he were an adult, Merle Dixon had been in and out of the juvie system like a kid stuck on a po-go stick. 

The man sitting opposite Rick did two rotations in the first Gulf War as a demolitions expert.  He came home with a dishonourable discharge after serving eight months in the stockade and went straight to work as a drug-runner with the Claimers cartel.

He hums a soft lullaby in an off-key pitch, coming down from a high with a gleefulness that alarms Rick.  There’s no room for remorse on his face; if Merle Dixon’s starting to realise the penalty for shooting a cop unprovoked, then he’s not inclined to panic.  “Here piggy, piggy, piggy,” Merle calls.  “I’ll huff.  I’ll puff. I’ll blow your house in.”

The door to the interview room opens.

It lets in the chatter of background noises, of office lights flickering on in the late afternoon sun, row by row, and it reveals Shane Walsh’s pole-axed face as he catches sight of Rick. His eyebrows are as eloquent as Morse code – all dashes and indignant dots – spelling _what the hell are you **still** doing here man!  _ and _Hospital, Rick! Hospital’s the sane place to be!_   They’ve known each other since the crib, and sure, Shane might have stolen his girlfriend when he was seventeen and married Lori three years later, but Rick’s over that.

(Sometimes.  Mostly.  Well okay, at least Rick has the good grace not to mention it in arguments).

Rick ignores him, keeps his tone even, because no way in hell is he letting Merle Dixon get under his skin this late in the game.  

“The cartel’s not going to bail you out, Merle. You screwed up; you’re not worth it to them.  Shooting me – that’s on you.  They’re going to let you burn, flick of a switch and it’s not crystal meth running through your veins but a lethal injection of pentobarbital, and that’s a party you won’t ever wake up from.”

There’s a tic running through Merle’s cheek. “You ain’t dead. I ain’t killed no one.”

“Not for lack of trying.”

Shane pushes away from the door.  He sits down beside Rick, scraping the chair backward from the table, making an awful ding.  He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, smearing saliva until they’re shiny and full, his voice contemplative.  “You should listen to Officer Grimes, Merle, or better yet, you should have used that one phone-call you had up your sleeve to ask for a lawyer; because if the kid waiting in the corridor _is_ your brother, well, let’s say I don’t think the Claimers sent him here with a wad of cash.”

Merle blinks rapidly.  “Daryl?  He’s here? I wanna see him.”

“You’re seeing jack-shit until we’re done.”

“Done?  Are there particulars I’m not aware of?

Shane throws an incredulous look, as if the events of the morning have somehow slipped Merle’s mind completely.  “Illegal possession of a firearm.  Possession of illegal narcotics.  Possession of a quantity of narcotics not viable for personal use – that’s drug-running, for you simple minded folk – aggravated assault, resisting arrest, attempted murder.  Do you want me to go on here or are you getting the gist?”

Rick gives up his casual pose to drape both forearms across the table.  He leans in close, face to face with Merle, breaching the distance. “Did you think I was shitting you about the death penalty or are you really that stupid?”  And there, Rick thinks, there it is, the quick nervous bob of Merle’s throat as he swallows, as he cants away from Rick’s presence.  His face looks paler, or maybe that’s the last vestiges of the high leaving his bloodstream, clarity when you want it least of all. Rick’s been waiting all afternoon for that moment of sobriety.

“Get out of my face, man,” Merle snarls, but it’s lost some of the vim and vigour of his previous rejoinders.

“You can’t scrape up enough money for a meal at MacDonalds,” Shane laughs, deliberately cruel.  “Your lawyer is going to be court appointed.  Do you know what that means?  It’s some pimply-skinned kid straight out of school, not good enough to be hired by an individual firm, they’re going to pronounce you guilty as charged and dead within two weeks, not worth the time for a mock trial. But then, you’re not worth much to anybody, are you?”

Rick flinches internally, he barely stops himself from kicking Shane, _too much, too much already,_ like a poker player getting all rowdy at the table. 

Merle narrows his eyes, the brief glimpse of fear, of being against the ropes, replaced by calculation.  He leans backward in his seat, as far as the cuffs will allow, and laughs:  “Oh,” he says, softly. “You want me to lick your boots and beg, don’t you?  What’s the going rate for a snitch in a key position, reduced sentence, clemency, send me back to the Claimers to spy?” Merle spits.  Unexpected, it catches Rick on the bottom of his chin, below the mouth, a white gob that Rick wipes off with the back of his hand. Merle surges against the table, chains rattling.  He strains against the bolts that fix it to the floor.  The veins in his neck pop.  His face has gone red with terrible rage.  “I ain’t begging!  I ain’t begging, you!  I’ll take my chances with the court, you fuckers.”

And just like that their window of opportunity is shut.

Rick steps away from the table and leaves the room. Behind him, he hears Shane force Merle into his seat again, up-righting the fallen chair and muttering, “Simmer down.”

The lighting in King’s County Sheriff’s Department is fluorescent, running the length of the bull-pen; the third light flickers, winking on and off.  Remains of dead bugs and insects are caught between the light and the plastic covers, illuminated carcasses in black.  Rick rubs a stiff hand against the back of his neck and ignores the ache in his ribcage, how every breath feels shallow, no matter how deeply he breathes.

“Who are you?”

Rick pivots, turning toward the voice.

The speaker is pressed up against the watch-keeper’s desk, chest flush to the cheap vinyl and a hairsbreadth from slithering over the top of it. His hair is short, dirty blonde; torn jeans, a flannel shirt with the arms ripped off and dusty boots complete the essemble. He has the same eyes as his brother - denim blue - the same eyes Rick has but that’s where the resemblance ends.

Rick would never have pegged them as brothers if he hadn’t known Daryl Dixon was already out here waiting.  He’s taller than Merle, cheekbones sharp. His frame is a classic Y, broad shoulders, tapered waist, and if the Greeks’ modelled their statues on a certain body type then Daryl Dixon is the living embodiment of it. “Rick Grimes,” he answers, readily, and steps toward the watch-desk.

“Rick Grimes – you got my brother back there?”

Younger than Merle, maybe by a decade, there’s a certain bluster to his tone that Rick’s encountered a thousand times or more – it’s ‘aggressive’ and it’s ‘back off’ and it’s ‘don’t mess with me’ rolled into one – problem is, Rick’s a cop.  Curiosity is part of the job description.  All it does is make Rick want to poke him, to see a glimpse of what’s beneath. “Yes,” he answers.

“You releasing him anytime soon?”

“He’s in questioning.”

“Man, he’s been in questioning for over ten hours! Ain’t you done questioning?!” The volume turns a few heads, makes the senior staff look over with a frown.  

Rick waits until their attention resettles elsewhere. He listens to the overhead hum of the lights, the insects that bang against the ceiling. “You have any idea what your brother is being charged with?”

“Are you thick – you haven’t let me see him yet!” Daryl nearly hollers.

Rick has to bite back the smile, unintentional. If Daryl were to see it he’d interpret it wholly wrong; chances were, he’d throw himself over the desk and take a swing at Rick with a station full of police officers or no, and that wasn’t an outcome anyone wanted.  “Easy,” Rick murmurs.  By all accounts Merle Dixon wasn’t big on passing along information on the county phone-lines - including why he’d been arrested.  “We can hold him up to seventy-two hours without pressing charges, you sure you want to hang around for the duration?”

Daryl goes still, his expression tight, and Rick thinks he finally sees the family resemblance.  He looks as close to Merle as he’s ever going to get, something bright and animal quick making him assess Rick from head to foot, like he’s scented a lie.

“You ain’t charged him yet?” Daryl says suspiciously. “Why not?”

Because it’s organised crime, the FBI’s jurisdiction, and the Feds haven’t arrived on scene yet, instead they’re taking their own sweet time arriving.  Because they need those seventy-two hours to convince Merle to flip against the Claimers, become a snitch, and Rick thinks they’re going to need every second just to convince Merle of the necessity.  For the moment, they want him secluded  - away from the prying eyes and ears of the cellblocks - and ‘convince’ Merle in the privacy of the interview room instead.  Even so, Rick’s half convinced it will not work. 

“It’s complicated…” Rick hedges.  He eyes the dirty flannel, notes the lack of emblems or affiliation tatts.  Daryl has two that Rick can see off the cuff, a black star on the back of his hand and the devil on his inner bicep, but none of the tattoos are Claimer related. “You didn’t follow your brother into the biker gang?” he deduces softly, and looks up in time to see Daryl recoil, his face flat with suspicion, already on point with Rick’s line of questioning and not liking it one bit.

“Screw you,” he grates out.

Startled, Rick watches him go. 

Daryl slams out of the front entry, almost taking the door off its hinges. 

Through the windows of the police station, Rick tracks him as he walks to a beat-up truck parked on the side of the road, blue paint flaking from its nose, one fender crumpled inward.    He sits on the tail end of the flat-bed, legs swinging over the edge like an overgrown kid, then plonks backward, stretched out bodily.  There’s a brief flare of a match being struck -the coiled smoke-cloud of an exhalation - and apparently Daryl Dixon has decided to wait the duration out, however long it is. 

Shane emerges from the interview room. His partner approaches from the side, scrubbing the back of his head ruefully.  “Sorry for the interrupt man,” he says, indicating the interview room. “But the Feds are half an hour out, I thought you’d want to know.”

 _I ain’t gonna beg,_ Rick hears Merle yell, and wonders if Daryl would – beg for his brother that is, if he’d make a stand, speak up for him when not even Merle cared about his own fate - if he’d go further, lie, cheat and steal, if he’d _fight_ for him _._

Rick watches the cigarette burn in the distance, bright as a firefly.  “What do you know about the kid?” he asks, thoughtfully.

 

 

***

 

Special Agents Kowalsky and Samuels arrive in a dark SUV during the last dregs of twilight - the sky a painter’s delight, a smudged palette between violet hues and encroaching black - they walk through the door of King’s County Sheriff’s department in clean suits and greet Rick amicably, if a little tired.

“Long drive?” Rick asks, sympathetic.

“Budget cuts,” Samuels mutters, popping her spine with a backward stretch.  “I miss the good ol’ days of unlimited flights.” Kowalsky accepts a disposable cup of the house coffee; takes a sip then grimaces; politely, he doesn’t spit it out.Samuels, watching avidly, declines with a wave of her hand. “Heard you folks had a lively morning, stumbled across quite the haul.”

“The evidence is in processing at the moment. But there was a stash of unregistered guns, money, at least ten kilos of crystal meth, possibly more.”

Kowalsky smiles thinly.  He turns the cup around in his hand, the plastic crinkling in his grip.  “You didn’t think to call for backup before raiding a Claimer house?” He asks pointedly – and Rick thinks here it comes - the pissing part of the night has now commenced. “Or contact the _appointed_ taskforce so we could sit on the house, catalogue who came and went, before you decided to shoot it up, all country-western style?”

Rick rocks on his heels, feels the yellow and green bruises flare all over his chest where Merle shot him point blank, and tries not to clench his fist.  It’s a struggle to keep his voice civil:  “The original call-out was for some asshole taking pot-shots at a racoon on his fence-line...nothing more than a civil disturbance.  My partner and I didn’t know it was a Claimer house when we arrived - sure as shit didn’t care one way or another when Merle opened fire. We weren’t the only ones in the dark, I’d bet you didn’t know the Claimer were set up this far south, either.”

Kowalsky and Samuels exchange a look. Kowalsky steps around Rick and dumps the rest of his coffee in the waste-basket, spilling brown liquid over discarded paper and junk-food wrappers.  “He have a reason to shoot at you?”

“Dixon?  None.  He was sampling the product and got paranoid, thought we were there for the drugs and not because of the bullets he had fired earlier… and apparently, he don’t care for swine.”

“Well, if you and your partner really did stumble across that haul like a couple of cowpokes scratching your ass, then it was the worst mistake he ever made.”

“What did you say?” Shane explodes. His shoulders push back, his head lowers dangerously.

“No offence,” Kowalsky adds, belatedly.

“Some taken, mister.” 

“Ted, lay off,” Samuels warns her partner. “Where’s Merle Dixon now?”

“Interview room two,” Rick provides. When Kowalsky and Samuels shift to move past, Rick adds softly.  “If you want my opinion, he won’t flip.”

“Thanks for the insight, Deputy, but we’ve got it from here.” 

The two agents stop outside the interview room, they readjust their clothing until they look impeccable, untouched by the hours spent in the vehicle heading south, then open the door to Merle.

“I hate the FBI,” Shane grouses as soon as they’re out of sight.

Rick shrugs.  “They’re doing a job, same as we.”

“Yeah?  Someone ought to school them in manners.”

“Just like you, huh?”  Rick quirks a grin, taking the sting out of the words. Shane’s temper always edged closer to the sun than most.  Knowingly, Rick asks:  “Where’d you hide the good stuff anyway?”

Shane brings in his own coffee – he refused to drink the swill the department provided.  He used to hide the tin in his desk drawer until everyone in the station figured it out – everyone in the station being thieving, conniving, bastards who learnt how to steal from the best - _this ain’t no communist state_ , Shane had hollered angrily when he found his empty stash – now, the location changes on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis. Rick’s found it hidden in the fridge, hidden inside dirty socks in the locker-room, he’s found it in evidence and under a steel bunk in the empty cells.  He’s found it hidden in the trunk of a police car, the tin rolling around in the back every time they turned a corner too fast.

“They’re rude! I ain’t sharing the good java with them,” Shane protests.

“Don’t have to – you’re sharing it with me, your wounded partner.”

Shane huffs and relents, stalking toward the third cupboard from the right in the kitchen - the one with the bum door, half unhinged - and reaches _way_ into the back of the top shelf, standing on tip-toes to reach.   “Now you’re just milking it for all its worth,” he grumbles.  Rick accepts the tin; he makes two cups, steaming black and thick with aroma, using the chipped mugs from the cupboard, and returns the tin to Shane.  “Stay away you vultures,” Shane warns the night-shift crew, who are watching avidly.  He’ll be hiding the coffee in a different location before shortly, Rick knows. Shane leans against the counter, picking at a hangnail.  “You shouldn’t be here, man, Lori was worried sick when I told her. You were shot in the chest, Rick – that’s enough to rattle anyone’s cage.  Go home. Get some sleep.”

There’s no one there - and Rick’s happier working - stuff to do, things to process, paperwork to file and background histories he needs to cross-check. 

Rick’s been collecting files and misplaced information all afternoon, he has everything bundled into his knapsack ready to go.

Shane stole his girlfriend when they were seventeen, but he’s older now and Rick knows there’s no such thing as ‘stealing’ when there’s a relationship on the line - and Lori and Shane had one - stronger than what Rick had with Lori.  They’ve never grown restless in each other’s company.  They don’t rub each other wrong. Their edges moulded to fit. Rick knows Lori could never have been ‘stolen’ in the first place if some part of her wasn’t ready to drift. Heck – they were only kids - and if Rick’s hit with odd moments of ‘what if’ – what if he’d fought harder for Lori, what if they’d made an honest shot of it, what if they married or had a kid - he can’t begrudge the happiness they found.   When Rick closes his eyes, he can hear the break in Shane’s voice when he saw Rick fall, he can remember the frantic pat-down afterward, checking for injury as Rick lay gasping on Merle’s front lawn. He summons up a lopsided grin for the other man.  “I plan on it.”

The change in shift has seen a change in kitchen supplies, someone’s brought in fresh pastries.  Rick grabs two, wraps them up in serviettes and shoves them in his jacket pocket, he picks up both coffees and pushes through the doors to Kings County with his back to the glass, trying to balance and not overspill anything set to scolding. 

Outside, the air’s turned nippy.  Tthere’s a fine mist creeping low to the streets, hugging the tips of grass and curling around Rick’s boots.  Rick takes a second to stare upward at the stars. From inside the police station, he can hear Merle Dixon start hollering again, at the FBI thankfully, his voice muffled by walls and distance. 

Rick trips down the steps lightly.  He walks across the road to the parked truck with its single occupant and calls out.  “Here – got something for you.”

“Don’t need anything.”

Rick sets the coffee cup and spare pastry on the truck-bed, he ignores the churlish stare he receives in return and takes a big bite from his own, spilling icing powder on his tans.  “FBI arrived.”

“Them Mulder and Scully wannabes in the civvy rental? Yeah, I saw ‘em. It’s a shame she wasn’t a redhead.”

I want to believe, Rick intones under his breath.

Daryl’s arms are bare, and if Rick’s cold in his uniform and jacket then the kid must be freezing on the metal tray-bed. He can see the quiver in the cigarette every time Daryl drags on the butt-end.  Rick gives the back of the truck a quick once-over, a professional habit, his shrewd gaze falling on the red and grey horse blanket bundled under the driver’s cab window, the shape mysteriously misshapen in the dark. Rick licks the icing off his fingers, one at a time.  “You can stay here all night, no skin off my nose, but when I said we could hold Merle for seventy-two hours I wasn’t exaggerating.”

“He won’t flip,” Daryl states.  He blows a smoke-ring toward the stars, aiming for the hunter, Orion.  “My brother ain’t a snitch.”

It’s enough to give Rick pause; enough to make him suspect Daryl isn’t as dumb as his next of kin. 

“Who said anything about flipping?”

“You did, by holding Merle without charges. Heck, the _FBI’s_ involved in this shit-hole town, it’s been over ten hours but there’s nothun’ in the evening papers, nothing on the news. Whatever went down, you people are suppressing it.”  Daryl raises his head, peering down the length of his own body to fix Rick with a contemptuous stare.  “You pricks are always looking for someone to do your dirty work.  Don’t need to be a genius to figure out who.”

The suppression would have been successful too if Merle called a lawyer like most folks did instead of his kid brother. Daryl might be a tool in the making but he’s not the dullest blade in the shed by a long shot.

Rick finishes his coffee in one swallow, the chipped mug dangling from his index finger.  He nods toward the horse blanket and warns idly.  “You better have a licence for whatever’s hiding under there.”

“The good state of Georgia don’t require a licence for a crossbow, asshole.”

“Can’t afford a rifle?”  Rick doesn’t know why he says it.   He spent ten hours with Merle Dixon in a confined room and Rick didn’t even blink once - not against the slurs, the slander, bored with the man to the point where Rick was immune to every insult hurled. Merle’s attitude slid away like water off a duck’s back.

But three minutes with the brother and Rick feels there are white-hot needles jabbed under his skin; his entire body buzzing unexpectedly. There’s something about Daryl’s agate stare that makes Rick want to react.  Match weapon for weapon or word for word.  He wants to push back with equal, and deliberate, force.   Honestly, Rick wants to go toe to toe with Daryl and it’s not a comfortable realisation to make.

“Shit, couldn’t afford the bullets. You think you can look down on me?” Daryl asks. “They reckon cops fall into two categories: those who can relate to the victims and those who can relate to the convicts – you just another thug under the badge?” Smoke licks around his fingers and tongue; his eyes are narrow, slanted like a cat.  “Strip the uniform away and I think you might be, Deputy Dog. Another killer with a badge to excuse it.”

“Sounds like armchair psychology to me.”  Rick zippers up his jacket; he wipes his fingers on his trouser leg and screws the serviette into a ball.  If he agrees to the FBI’s terms then ‘dead’ is Merle’s likely fate – the FBI’s last informant had a blow-torch held against his genitals – Joe Kober left him overnight like that, before killing him the next day with a baseball bat.  Joe takes betrayal personally.  Liars, turncoats, pansy-ass actors, they don’t go gently into the night. They’re hurt, tortured, over the course of hours.  Even if Samuels and Kowalsky succeeded in flipping Merle (and that’s a mighty big if) the elder Dixon is too mercurial, unhinged, Rick doesn’t believe he’s quick enough to adapt to the change, or smart enough to hide it.  After all, Merle wasn’t smart enough to play it cool when the cops showed up at his house unexpectedly, for an unrelated matter. Rick’s chest pounds in memory, blood pools thick under the skin, the bruise hot as a brand and expanding.

Daryl stubs out his cigarette and flicks the butt end over Rick’s shoulder carelessly.  His legs are crossed loosely at the ankle, and that pale flash of stomach – a strip of light in the encroaching dark – is a hint of jeans riding too low, of shirt-tails flying high.  The jut of his hipbone, the angled v of muscle that points toward his groin, draws Rick’s attention like a moth to the flame.  

He feels like one of those insects trapped in the office space inside.  Beside Daryl, the coffee cup steams into the night. “You should drink that before it grows cold.” Rick pushes away from the truck, unsettled, and tips his Sheriff’s hat in departure.  “Have a pleasant night, Mr. Dixon.”

Hopefully the kid will give up the vigil and go home, save Rick the hassle of filing a report when they find his frozen corpse tomorrow. “Fuck you, Mr. Grimes,” Daryl answers, just as sweetly.

 

 

***

 

 

At home, Rick checks his torso over in the bathroom mirror, one arm raised above his head, tracking the spider-web bruising over his ribs and sternum, the hairline fracture that hurts like a sonofabitch, making every breath rattle.  He reheats last nights’ enchiladas in the microwave, sinks a cold beer in four swallows and sacks down on the lumpy couch with his bare feet propped on the coffee table.

The message bank on his phone blinks at him urgently, stating he’s missed four calls since Rick left the house this morning.

There are reports on Merle Dixon and the Claimers scattered all over the carpet, the number of soldiers, product movement, their incursions onto other people’s market; their gory pockets of violence – murders, beatings, people who have disappeared and never been seen again – corruption further north, but they’ve never ventured this far south before. The surveillance photos of the command hierarchy are in colour print: of Joe Kober, Len Hester and Tony Jai. 

Rick stares at Joe’s face, weather-lined, grey hair curled at his nape, a leather jacket over a rose-thorn shirt, and wonders why he stocked a house full of crystal meth way out here, in middlefuck nowhere.

“What are you playing at in KC, Joe?”

There’s a side-on surveillance shot of Merle Dixon, taken on his bike in full leathers, the Claimers gang riding out onto the highway en masse. 

There’s another photo outside a bar, blurry, taken through a night-lens with Merle’s arm flung across Daryl’s shoulders, but surprisingly little information on Daryl himself – no employment records, no prison-time, no interaction with the bikers beyond that single image – it’s possible he lives off the dole and whatever hunting skills he has with a bow, or more likely, he earns his cash under the table and never declares it. 

Or he’s a runner, Rick muses, not entirely happy with the scenario.  Just like his older brother, only better at hiding it.

In the photograph, Merle is half-collapsed, three sheets to the wind and tripping over his own feet.  Daryl has him by the waist, one shoulder under his brother’s armpit, head turned toward him.  It’s not a flattering portrait; Daryl’s face is contorted, like a wet alley-cat ready to spit.  Rick turns the photograph over in his hand – there’s a notation on the back for a civil disturbance that occurred on January the 8th – property damage and a few bruised egos, but it appears both brothers cleared out before the cops arrived to put a stop to the bar fight. 

The sharp _brrrrinnng_ of the phone cuts the silence. 

It startles Rick, one foot jerks out uncontrolled, knocking over the empty beer can; he curses and snatches the phone off the hook. “Yeah?”

“Rick,” Lori says.

He can remember a time when he couldn’t look her in the eye – not without the urge to hit something – Rick can remember when he couldn’t speak two words to Lori, a hurt so profound he was never going to recover. An indignant anger that he nurtured – held close to his chest – happy to be smothered by it.

You don’t talk to me, she had said, even now you won’t talk.  The conflict doesn’t interest you; you’d rather send things on their way instead of resolve it, like me, like Shane, you never want to fight for us.  And he’d wanted to ask her what was there to say? Some things should be easy, Rick figured, some things should fit together without harm, and fighting, he sees fighting every second of every day, peace is what Rick craves. Lori had smiled, bitter, eyes shining with tears.  Eternal peace? It doesn’t apply to relationships, Rick; you’re a child if you think it does.  He’d hated her all through the final year of high school – and then college came and they went their separate ways – he met Andrea, Glenn, fell under the tutelage of Professor Horvath, his circle of friends expanding, until Rick didn’t think about Lori every second of every day, until he thought about her hardly at all.

It wasn’t an issue until Shane ended up in the same Academy class as him, and there was a moment when Rick thought - Huh, bet they ended it long ago, bet she slept with someone else too – and maybe the sentiment was based on spitefulness but it faded the moment he laid eyes on her. Lori was radiant at their graduation – full bellied – her skin alight.  She had touched her own stomach compulsively, rubbing slow circles, and her smile wavered when she caught sight of Rick, when she stepped forward and said hesitantly “Hullo.”  It still felt like a knife sliding through his ribs, it still hurt in unexpected ways, but Rick could breathe through it, he could look her in the eye, see how genuinely happy she was, and feel a little ashamed for his earlier thoughts. “Hello,” he responded and stared at her belly helplessly.  “You’re mom’s going to be a grandma at thirty-nine?”

“Yes,” Lori confirmed, wide-eyed.  “She’s _horrified_.”

Rick had laughed.  He couldn’t help it.  He’d known Loretta well. 

“Best looking grandma ever.”  He couldn’t say anything about the daughter – about how gorgeous Lori looked – if he did, Rick thought it might be like pulling out the knife prematurely.  Overwhelmed, he’d be choking on blood in no time. 

Lori’s smile had firmed, become genuine. “Admit it, you tried to beat Shane at everything in the academy, didn’t you?”

“Most testosterone-filled class,” Rick confessed. He was trying not to fidget at her proximity, trying not to notice the looks Shane tossed in their direction. Eventually, Rick deadpanned. “Between the two of us we put Top Gun to shame.”

“Gayest movie ever,” Lori teased – and Rick realised he wasn’t bleeding out, he wasn’t choked up or smothered over – she had touched his arm, warm and alive, with a shadow of anxiety in her eyes: “He’s going to be a daddy, Rick.”

“I’ll look out for him,” Rick promised, voice gone rough. “I promise.”

“Are you alright?” Lori asks now, her voice distorted over the crackling phone-line.  “What happened, Rick?”

“I forgot to duck,” he explains wearily, and puts the photograph down, resting on his stomach, his eyes drifting over Daryl’s face. Rick rubs the blur from his vision, pinching the bridge of his nose, the phone cradled between his shoulder and ear. “It’s fine.  I was wearing my vest.”

“Shane was in hysterics.”

“Shane’s _never_ in hysterics.”

“Rubbish – he’s a rollercoaster of raw emotion.” - _give me that_ – Rick hears in the background, followed by a brief struggle for the phone.  “Hey man,” Shane says presently, out of breath.  “Before the two of you spend the night gossiping: do you want the good news or bad first?”

“Bad.”

“Brace yourself; psych services notified the Sheriff’s department this evening – you’re on enforced vacation until they can do an evaluation on your emotional state, post shooting.  Welcome to the jolly world of mental health and PC.”

Rick swears, at length, until he runs out of cuss words and is left growling at the ceiling in frustration.  “I want to take PC into the backyard and execute it,” he says, vehemently.

“Son, you might want to keep that desire to yourself – the shrinks could hold it against you.”

“I was shot at - I wasn’t hit.”

“Technically, you were hit.  I dug the slug out of your vest myself.”

“He shot at you, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m nimble – next time we’re on the gun-range I’ll teach you the slo-mo combat roll, Shane-style.”

“Dick,” Rick says, fondly, and bangs his head against the couch cushion.  He’s contemplating the fridge, heading back for that second beer because what the heck does it matter now, he could be out of the job for weeks while the beaurecrats run the paperwork, when Shane continues.

“So, now you’re all morose here’s something to cheer you up. Dana Sutherland came through, after our talk this afternoon.”

“Sutherland?  As in child services Sutherland?”

“One and the same – her first rotation was out near Amicalola Falls – near Linden County, your baby Dixon kept a clean slate as an adult but Sutherland had a few run-ins with their old man back in the day. Gotta tell you, Rick, Sutherland sure can prattle on, she tried to give me that twenty minute lecture about how familial incest is the training ground for adult prostitution.  She had statistical print-outs in her hand and everything.  Man, you ever had to listen to Dana when she’s on a – “

“Shane,” Rick interrupts. 

Honestly, he loves the man, but if Shane doesn’t hurry up and get to the point, Rick’s going to stroll over to their house and beat him about the ears with the landline.  He’s been shot, he’s tired, he’s going over the particulars of a case he has no business being involved with now the FBI’s here, and he still can’t get the Dixon brothers out of his head, like prodding at the bruise on his chest, it does absolutely no good but he’s too self-aware to stop.

“Right.  Juvie records are obviously sealed, but Dana remembers going to Chestatee regional hospital in ’99 – New Years Eve bash gone wrong – makes it memorable, huh? She said Daryl was admitted with multiple fractures – kicked in the head a couple of times – ruptured eye-socket and a cracked skull.  His old man came around a couple of days later and pulled him out before the doctors were willing to sign the release form, state services were sent down to check things out.” 

There’s the audible sound of food being shoved into Shane’s mouth, a – _h-h-h-hot_ quick-step as he curses over the phone-line and (rudely) blows air into Rick’s ear, frantically trying to cool down whatever he ate. 

Rick stares at the photograph on his belly, deconstructing the years until it’s not a squinty-eyed hard-case dragging his brother away in an alley, but someone more malleable, not as sharp.

Daryl as a teenager, Rick thinks, would have been gender-blurred and appealing, he would have drawn the eyes of all the boys and girls. 

“The old man was responsible for the injuries?” he questions, slowly.

“Dana couldn’t say – kid wasn’t talking to anyone – but he was arrested for solicitation not five months later.  Might have been a john who liked to dish out a little pain with his pleasure.  Could have been a hate crime or his dad.  Guess we’ll never know.”

“Jesus,” Rick grimaces.  “What, he would have been sixteen in ninety-nine?”

“You and me both.  That’s the extent of our information – but Rick, let me tell you something: take those files back pronto, before the FBI ask _why_ you’re so curious.”

Shane was in a gunfight at nine twenty-three this morning – they’d barely finished their take-away coffee when the call went out – he co-arrested Merle Dixon by a quarter to ten, co-ordinated the forensics unit to collect the exhibits at the property, made his report at the station and went straight home to Lori for the afternoon before returning later that day – and Rick thinks that might be the key difference between them - that Shane’s first and foremost duty lay with his wife, not distracted by the follow-up investigation. 

 _Man, it can wait until the ‘morrow,_ he’d said fiercely, already stalking out the door, **_they_** _come first_.

Rick was shot in the chest at point blank range, co-arrested Merle Dixon by a quarter to ten, begged off going to hospital in favour for being checked over by the EMTs on sight.  He filed his report at the station, notified the FBI, and then spent the rest of the afternoon investigating Merle’s connection with the Claimers, discovering the seat of power and wondering why bikers were setting up camp in his backyard, until the curiosity had him striding into the interview room because _to hell with the FBI_ , Rick was the arresting officer on site and Merle was _his_ collar.

Even if he were married and had a kid waiting at home, Rick can’t see himself doing anything different.  If there’s a job to do – Rick’s going to see it done, duty, doing the right thing, aren't so easily seperated.

“Thank Dana for me,” he says to his partner, “the next time you see her.”

“You kidding?  I’ll be ducking her for the foreseeable future…my missus gets jealous when they pay too much - ”

“Give me that,” Lori says, and snatches the phone back.

 

 

***

 

 

Daryl’s truck is still parked out front when he arrives at work the following morning, the cabin window misted over with condensation.  The KCSD mug has rolled onto its side in the back, the serviette jammed into the bottom. Daryl’s asleep inside with his head propped against the window.

Rick snatches the mug and walks into the station dressed in his civvies: jeans and a flannel shirt, boots with the heel worn in and a satchel containing the USB and print-outs on the Claimers.

“That man is a bona fide pig,” Samuels exclaims, straight off the bat.  She’s situated at Rick’s desk, staring into her latte mournfully.  Her hair stands up in electrified clumps, as if she’s fisted it all night long, beside her Kowalsky snores with his mouth open, oblivious.

“No luck?”

“Even if he agreed I wouldn’t trust Merle Dixon as far as I could throw him.  The suppression’s revoked.  Call the newspapers and tell them exactly what went down yesterday.  Splash the story all over the front pages and get your promotion, Deputy.  It’ll be worth it.”

“I’m on vacation,” Rick answers, nonplussed.

If anyone has to feed the media jackals on yesterday’s events then it’s going to be Shane.   Besides, his partner looks better on TV and Shane could do with the promotion, the extra cash which comes with it. 

Rick plants a hip against the desk and jerks his head toward the truck outside, his stomach empty and queasy first thing in the morning. “You might want to keep the story on the QT until the brother has a chance to speak with him – to be honest - I don’t like Merle’s chances, not when the Claimers find out he cost them forty-eight million in revenue because of an outstanding lack of foresight.”

Samuels shrugs, dark circles under her eyes, her tone flat as she agrees.  “He’ll be dead the moment he steps into general pop.  But that’s not your concern.  Or mine.  If Merle’s not going to play for our team then let the Claimers discipline him on the inside. Joe’s big on accountability. One dead crook is one less scumbag the taxpayers have to feed.”

Rick doesn’t blink, even as his stomach rolls. He stares at her, adamant. “Let the brother speak to him.”

“Yesterday I recall _you_ were the one who said Merle Dixon wouldn’t flip, no matter who was doing the persuading.”  Samuels tilts her head, eyes sharp.  “I thought you were on forced vacation, Deputy?”

Rick did, and he still believes it, but that’s not the point.

It’s about Daryl, spending the night outside, waiting for one chance to speak to his brother.

Maybe if the brothers talked before the story were printed, they’d spend the time chatting about safe houses, drug routes to take. Or maybe Daryl would try to convince Merle to turn state’s evidence, or rat Joe out - sweep the current charges under the carpet, use the suppression to return the catalogued evidence to the house before the Claimers miss it, tag the meth, the guns, try to catch the bigger fish at a later date, see how everything played out - it doesn’t matter either way.  Not really. In the end, it’s about giving Daryl the opportunity to do whatever he can.  So if things go sour - _when_ they go sour – it won’t eat Daryl up from the inside. 

It’s a rough kind of peace and not one Rick will receive thanks for.  But if it were Rick, if it were his brother, he’d like to think he’d do whatever he could, regardless of the law.  Or their respective stance to it. 

“You don’t have to drop every single fact into the media’s lap, Agent,” he says softly, thinking about how stupidly high Merle was. “You can omit. Be creative.  Let them do the legwork.”

Samuels snorts.  She pushes away from the desk and taps Kowalsky on the shoulder, waking him up.  “Play the story straight, Grimes – because if you don’t -it’ll come out anyways.” And here she uses air quotation, her smile predatory as she curls her finger: “A nameless source revealed to the newspapers this afternoon.”

“FBI leak.”  

Rick straightens his posture, the taste in his mouth gone sour.  His fingers curl beside his thigh, used to the heft and weight of his firearm.  He feels naked in his civvies, and unlike Shane, Rick’s never been clear cut in his divide, despite what Daryl said last night - Rick’s empathy, his understanding - fell over both spheres – convicts and victims alike - the ordinary folk between.  If the world ever did go to shit, if he lost his badge, was stripped of his uniform, Rick thinks he’d float between the spectrums as needed, the baddest wolf with his teeth bared one moment, someone kinder the next.

“One other thing,” Samuel’s adds, before she leaves. Her tone is drawn, sharp as a cutlass. “Merle said you spent a few hours in interrogation with him.  Hope that bullet didn’t rattle your head as much as it rattled your ribcage, officer. I hope you had the intelligence not to antagonise my prisoner before the correct authorities arrived to soften him.  Because if you did - that forced vacation of yours might extend longer than expected.”

If Rick knows the bluster of Daryl’s voice - then he’s just as familiar with the insidious tone of a different kind of threat.  “I was on site.  I thought it in our best interests to keep Merle under observation…while he was high…for medical purposes.”

“And if I checked the footage?  There’d be no chit-chat?  No compromising a potential informant?”

Rick widens his eyes:  “We don’t have the budget of the FBI here, Agent. There’s no camera-feed in interrogation room two.  Although I wish to god there were.”

She clicks her tongue dubiously.  “Wished to god.”

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

Fri  - 6/2/10

Kings County Letterhead,                

reporting journalist, Maggie Greene.

 

_Merle Dixon; a foot soldier for the Claimers cartel, was charged late this afternoon at Kings County Sheriff’s Department by arresting officer, Deputy Shane Walsh. His arrest precipitated the discovery of illegal firearms, as well as ten kilograms of the highly addictive substance, methamphetamine, commonly referred to as Crystal Meth, with an estimated street value of over forty-eight million dollars.  Sources close to the investigation confirmed Mr. Dixon was afflicted at the time of the arrest – ‘sampling the product’ as one anonymous source provided - and was initially approached on an unrelated police matter._

_It has been confirmed bullets were fired on scene and one officer was injured in the course of duty. He was examined and later released by medical personal on sight._

_Merle Dixon was denied bail at the County Court Justice this evening._

_He currently awaits trial at Wentworth prison._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2.

 

 

 

 

The Letterhead acts as a makeshift coaster for Rick’s beer, Maggie Greene’s article is spread out across the rickety table beneath it, soaking up the bottles sweat. 

Shane’s photograph adorns the front page, looking stern and authoritative, beneath a by-line that screams _Forty-eight million dollar windfall for the Sheriff’s Department!_ There’s a secondary photograph of the crystal meth laid out in its heshen sacks, like stolen loot from a pirate ship.

“Hey!  Hey you!” Daryl calls from the door.  He’s beside Rick in three long strides, eating up the distance. One hand lands on Rick’s shoulder, spinning the barstool around, one fingertip jabs the by-line belligerently “Are you responsible for this shit?” His eyes are bloodshot and there’s something jittery in his movements, on the verge of frantic.

Rick could feign ignorance but he knows exactly what Daryl’s talking about.  “I’m not the anonymous source.”

“Who else then?  Hey?  Hey!” His fingers tighten; they dig into Rick’s collarbone viciously.

“Could have been the medics on the site who treated Merle. Could have been anyone in the drunk tank who saw the state of your brother before he was removed.” Could have been the FBI who leaked it, Rick doesn’t say, and most certainly was.  “But I wouldn’t do that.”  There’s a fault-line running through Daryl, Rick can feel the vibration in his fingertips, a tremor barely visible.

“Joe’s going to read it,” Daryl says. “Merle can lie all he wants, say the bust was due to intel.  But…Joe’s going to read it and know.”

Daryl’s not, Rick realises, a part of the cartel at all but someone who’s lived on the edge of it, has heard his brother talk. Merle thought he was loyal in the interrogation, thought he was a stand-up guy for refusing to roll, he thought his silence would be _rewarded,_ his position secured: Merle never saw himself as a liability – his own choices a domino-fall – instead he was the staunch hero of his own reality.

Rick looks away from the paper, tongue forked, heavy with doubt.  “Joe might believe the lie, give Merle a second chance.”  He says.  Joe might pay the legal fees, let Merle do his stretch in prison, and Merle would go, knowing there’d be a job for him after release.  He says, damningly:  “It depends on how well he knows your brother.”

Daryl takes a breath then he hauls back and punches Rick, a hard clip to the side of the face.

Apparently, Joe knows Merle too well.

 

***

 

“Got you something,” Rick says, tiredly, after the fight is broken up and it’s over apart from the aches. 

They’re sitting with their back to the walls, in the grimy old cell of King’s county. 

Every time Rick’s co-workers wander by, they smirk at him from behind the bars, shake their heads ruefully.  Rick hasn’t left of his own volition yet, although he could have, long ago.  Instead, he shares the same space as Daryl, occupies the same air.  The one concession Rick _had_ asked for was food, and the good stuff at that, from Shane’s supply.

“Don’t need nothing from you,” Daryl repeats, with his eyes closed.

Rick places the coffee beside him, lays the pastry off centre.  He waits a beat then assures:  “It’s not your fault.”

Inexplicably, Daryl says: “He told me to call Joe. It was the first thing Merle said, when they finally let me see him…call Joe.  Before the paper came out.”

Rick swallows. 

He thinks about the fight, the property damage, he thinks about bruises layered upon bruises and how sore his jaw is. “It was a good shot. The fight.  But I’m not pressing charges - or letting you be removed to your brother’s location,” Rick raps on the cell door, letting the staff know he wants out, voice a rasp.  “Hitting me isn’t the same as shooting me, Daryl.  And Hershel, the owner, he’s an old friend of mine.”

Daryl opens both eyes.  “I’ll put an arrow in you next time - if it gets me to Merle quick.”  There’s hate brimming in his stare, fear, and terror too. He’s coiled tight, lashing out in all directions, unknowing of whom to trust.  

Rick aches like a venom bite, he believes Daryl; he believes him through and through.  He explains roughly.  “We don’t have video feed.”  Same thing he told Samuels the day before, except: “But what we _do_ have is audio.   Threats like that will see you in _here_ for another day. Maybe two.  Until I’m certain you’ve calmed down.”

“He’s the only family I got.”  Daryl’s eyes are dark.  He says, huskily -  “Please – “

Please

There’s a fault line quivering through Rick. He can feel it in his skeleton, vibrating in his bones, it's a chasm that matches the man opposite.  He wants to say sorry – for the decisions Merle made, for the kind of person Joe is; for newspapers that print sensationalism - and with so little care to consequence - for petty arguments between departments and for feeling things, _everything_ , so raw. Sorry.   As if it made any kind of difference.  Instead, Rick says: “I’m not helping you to prison.”

 

 

 

Mon – 10/2/10

Kings County Letterhead,

reporting journalist, Maggie Greene.

 

 

_Merle Dixon, awaiting trial for gun and drug related offences, was announced dead at Wentworth prison this morning.  Mr. Dixon, a renown supporter of white supremacy, is believed to have been the victim of growing racial tension inside of the Wentworth grounds._

_No charges have been laid at present and prison authorities are continuing to investigate_.

 

 

 

 

 

At eleven the same morning, a low menacing growl floods through the streets.  They drift into town as a phalanx, a river of chrome and black.  They arrive lawlessly, taking up both sides of the road, and pull into Hershel’s Tavern one bike at a time.

“I’m looking for someone,” Joe tells the keep.

He’s an imposing man, broad shouldered, his hair gunmetal grey.  He lights up a cigar, sniffs the end delicately and doesn’t smile at Hershel, not even once, his eyes are calculating in the gloom.   He takes note of the smashed up chair, the wooden leg, stacked in one corner of the bar.  He sees the empty spaces where beer glasses once resided on the mantle and are now broken, dusted, swept clear.  He sees the dent in the plaster where a body impacted against a wall.  He notices the soggy newspaper, spreadeagled, and shuts it to the front page.

Joe leans against the bar amicably, forearm against the print, slashing Shane’s image, his stern face, his clean uniform, in half.  “His brother was my pack – gone now, god rest his soul - but we look after our own.”  Joe’s voice carries without an excess of volume, he waits for Hershel patiently.

Joe’s charismatic.  He can beat a man to death for lying, for even _daring_ to lie.

He can set up and kill a man for stupidity.

He knows the authorities will look at the body, see the story of his tattoos, the swastika, the white supremacy, and invent a theory made to fit.  Gilded to hide Joe's own sin.

_Joe abhors liars._

But he can spin a tale like the devil himself when suited.

“This someone have a name?” Hershel asks. He lays the dish-cloth aside. Hershel stays behind the bar, older than Joe and just as keen.  He watches the bikers, listens to them laugh outside, like the yapping of wild dogs, their bikes growling in the background.

“Yeah.  I believe he does.”  Joe looks down at the picture, then smooths Shane’s image out, he raps his knuckles twice, sharp as a ricochet. “When Daryl Dixon wanders by, you let him know the Claimers have come.  We have a space for him.  Merle always said he’s one of ours.”

“Claimers…I see,” Hershel repeats.  “You might be waiting a while, he was arrested in this very bar not a few days ago along with Rick.  Heard he cleared out.  Returned to Amicalola Falls to bury his brother.  I’m sure you know that, being so close to your pack and all…that Daryl's not from these parts.”

Joe straightens and leans away from the bar, his expression quizzical. “And Rick?  The man arrested with him  Is he a friend of Daryl’s?”

Hershel reaches out, he rolls up the newspaper and starts cleaning the glasses, head bowed, eyes lowered.  “They fought together,” he admits. 

The thing about lying is this: the best ones - the most effective - are shaded between truths, coloured by interpretation.  Outside, the dust is kicked upward as the Claimer's rough-house together; inside, Hershel’s retort never even pings on Joe's radar.  Approvingly, he nods.  "A pair of hell-cats, then."

"Yes," Hershel says.  "They are."


End file.
